A Dark and Stormy Night
by Tsona
Summary: FINISHED! Character study. McGonagall reflects upon what made her stern, a staunch supporter of Dumbledore, and a fierce fighter against Voldemort. M for safety's sake.


_A/N: This is a completely random character study. I just got back from a party-- a first day of Nanowrimo/Halloween party, which I attended as Prof. McGonagall. I feel in character, the weather outside is the perfect setting. I'm going to go for it._

_Yours forever, Tsona_

The rain thundered down on the umbrella sending cascades off the edges, streaks of silver that lit her way as she hurried, back bent, shoulders in, head down against the wind that pressed the umbrella back into her hand, that threatened to whip it from her, or at the very least turn it inside out. It was a wild night, a dark night. But beautiful too, with the pavement gleaming in the light of the lamps, the rain glittering, the lights themselves surrounded by a soft, misty glow, and the sound of the rain against the rooftops, a pleasant white noise, a whisper, like a boy's voice, like sheets rustling as he rolled toward her--

But no. She was Professor McGonagall now. Not Minerva, sleek and tall, with long cascades of black hair that his fingers tangled in, that he brought to his lips, kissed, sniffed, while all the while those eyes-- such dark eyes-- watched her.

And she had smiled at him. Welcomed him as he leaned down over her, to seal her lips--

Why? Why did these wild nights make her think of him? She supposed it wasn't all that ironic. He was wild. He was dark. That, at least, had not changed-- probably never would change.

But he had changed. They both had. He wasn't the boy she'd loved, the sixth year with the dark hair and piercing eyes, eyes that begged sympathy, wide and cast low when family, when home, when love, when friendship came up in conversations. She'd watched him. She'd had to watch him then. She'd been Head Girl and he a prefect in the year below. Now he was Lord Voldemort. Just Lord Voldemort. She'd not seen him yet, not in the flesh. She knew her stomach would turn when she did, having known him as he was, seeing him now. He was not the brilliant orphan who'd charmed her-- almost as if by magic. He was a dark force that had to be smothered, a blight that had to be taken from the world. The difference was astonishing.

But, Minerva McGonagall thought, as she climbed the steps to her flat, turned the key in the lock, as she shook out her umbrella and dropped it in the stand, as she lit the lamps with a careless wave of her wand, as she looked up to see herself in the mirror, she had changed too. Her face was deeply lined, years of frowns gouging dry channels around her mouth and pulling down at her eyes, more heavily veiled now. Her hair, revealed as she drew back the hood of her emerald wool cloak, so tightly pulled back into a bun, not a wisp out of place, was an iron gray. His coldness, learning to deal with what he had become, what she had allowed herself even once to love had made her severe, strict. Pleasure-- particularly that sort of pleasure-- it seemed had only left her alone in bed, wondering where he was, wondering what he was doing.

Still she'd never told anyone what she had seen. That night she'd walked in on him and his friends-- his Death Eaters. Even now as her fingers brushed over the old memory she shuddered.

He'd welcomed her there. "Minerva, my sweet." But then it had not sounded like honey from his lips, waiting for her to taste, painfully sweet and oh so tempting. Then it was a sneer. "Come and see, then."

"Tom." The word had been a plea, gasped out and torn from her with her heart.

He'd only smiled at her, smiled that smile that had so disarmed her before-- that alarmed her now. And there had been blood on his fingers.

She jerked away from the mirror, looked away.

She walked to the bedroom. Here she began to undress. She reached up and undid the pins, one by one, that held her hair in place. It fell down around her with the weight of satin, billowing outward, enjoying its rare freedom. For the moment, it was as it had been. Her fingers tangled absently in the ends, her gaze distant and unfocused.

"Why?"

"Because, Minerva, I knew you wouldn't like it. Not as a Head Girl. So I didn't want you to see. I didn't want you to investigate. I knew if I kept you with me--" he reached toward her, toward her dark hair, and she shrank back. He didn't seem distressed or even taken aback by her shudder of fear, or refusal to be touched now. "--then you wouldn't come looking for me-- and find me-- here. Perhaps as a powerful witch, as an intelligent witch, you can see--"

"I can't, Tom."

"No, I thought as much."

She still couldn't see-- and never would.

_A/N: There you go. A short little one-shot. For curiosity's sake, I searched McGonagall-Voldemort pairings. Mine will be the thirty-second fic of this type posted on this site. I guess it's not a popular pairing.... :/ Still, I'm proud to be one of the few. Though in this case, obviously, the relationship fell apart. Please review!_

_Yours forever, Tsona_


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